“But, Mom…”

“Tom.”

…claims to have caught one.

The phrase is a horror. The census man spoke about somebody who asserted the same thing. Malorie read of other claims in the pages he left behind. Indian River, right here in Michigan. Close. In its way, the new world is the wild west: lawless and boastful. She understands the chances of any of this being verified are slim to none. But what kind of person would brag of such a thing in the first place?

And in a public place…

That person worries her as much as what might be in a coffin in storage.

“Mom,” Olympia starts, like she’s about to tell her something she’s been meaning to say. But Malorie doesn’t want to hear any more. She doesn’t think she can take any more. They’re out in the world. They’re on a train with people they do not know. In the hands of others now.

“Not now,” she says.

And she asks herself: is it true that she fears men more than she does the creatures? Is she being honest with herself when she says the person who claims to have caught one is worse than the lauded catch could ever be?

Her personal darkness turns green, then sickly, as if the entire world is wrinkled and decaying. As if every memory and every thought is filtered through black fabric, all the hopes and reverse-grieving stolen, only cold wind remaining.

It’s something she hasn’t considered in a long time. Something she hasn’t quite told herself before.

It’s not people who have driven her to the brink of paranoia.

It’s the creatures.

They stole her life. They destroyed the world she loved. They took her sister and, she once believed, her parents. They took Tom the man and Olympia the woman, and Rick and Annette from the school for the blind. Even the census man doesn’t know how many lives were taken by the unfathomable entities because even the ones tallying the numbers aren’t allowed to look at them.

She feels chilled, sickly, and so she steps to where she thinks the mirror is and feels the counter for a sink. There isn’t one. She gets to her knees and feels for a container, anything to—

She finds one. A small metal garbage can. She brings it to her face just in time as the sickness comes out of her, splashes her chin but only her chin as almost every other part of her is covered in cloth and clothes.

Olympia is by her side.

“You need to lie down,” she says.